The Lake House

I've raised mountains in northern New York, under a star-brushed sky, for many years. I've carried their weight on my shoulders like Atlas carried the world, dusting them with trees and lakes and rivers that ran through them like veins.

From the withered stalks of wheat to the grassy underfoot, a small crumpled house grew in which spiders took root and frogs gathered in, collecting cobwebs and pools that summoned starlight.

It was years before the humans came, with their loud thoughts and footsteps that vibrated, disrupting the earthen ground. In the lakes, they wallowed and in the forest, they trampled ancient oaks and vines plump with fruit. They were big and beautiful and scary; big and beautiful and scary.